


a thing with feathers

by martial_quill



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel TV Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Sexual assault recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-17 01:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13066584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martial_quill/pseuds/martial_quill
Summary: Kate Bishop has an agenda and Matt has a case. Malcolm and Jessica are along for the ride. At least, that's how it starts.“You’ve got a reputation for taking cases nobody else will,” she says, the words coming out a little rushed.Matt can’t quite help a smile. “I’m bad at backing down,” he tells her. It’s the truth, and it’s not quite as good as his “I defend the innocent” line was, but it’s not bad either.She lets out a long, measured breath. “Good. Because I need to tear someone a new asshole.”Status: currently on a break.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where they share Matt's old office suite post-Defenders.
> 
> Trigger warning: From “It was about a week ago”, one of the primary female characters is recounting an instance of rape and sexual assault. If that’s a danger point for you, please skip it until "The words are bitten out sharply." I want you to be okay reading this.
> 
> Content warnings: Non-Con/Rape; Sexual Assault Recovery; Racism
> 
> The less serious content warnings: canon-typical levels of profanity and blasphemy
> 
> Also lol what am I doing why am I writing another fic especially one this heavy when I have a bunch of WIPs to work on already.
> 
> (I blame the insomnia.)

He’s been back in practise for a month, fishing people out of the drunk tank and helping Foggy with some of his case load. It’s slow days, but he thinks that’s probably not a bad thing, given everything that went down in Midland Circle, and the subsequent coma and recovery time. Time to get back into the world is probably not a bad thing. And while having Jessica and Malcolm in his office space is a little strange – apparently, their landlady had gotten tired of the bullet holes in the walls, and the brain stains in the carpet – he’s starting to get used to it.

All of that changes when a girl walks into their corridor. And he uses the term ‘girl’ intentionally.

She’s young. Not even in her twenties, by the sounds of her joints. Athletic, moving lightly on her feet, but not combat trained. She’s got a heavy leather handbag slung over her shoulder, and one hand is hovering near it, like there’s something in there that she needs to stay steady on her feet. He inhales the smell of metal, but not gunpowder. A knife, then. She smells like jasmine, apple shampoo, and a matcha latté. Her breathing is a little laboured, stressed, and he hears a muttered _“fuck”_ before she slows it. In, two, three.

Then she walks into the reception area, and knocks on the door frame.

Malcolm greets her. 

“Morning, how can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m, uh, here for a lawyer.” Her heart continues to pound in her chest, stressed, almost scared. _Of Malcolm? Why?_

“Well, you’re in luck. I think Matt’s free right now, Miss–,” he tells her. His smile is twined into his voice, warm and friendly and professional.

“Uh, Kate. Kate Bishop. Thanks,” she says, her voice light, cloaking every inch of strain. “Do I just–”

“I’ll go grab him,” Malcolm says, standing and walking from his desk to the door, knocking twice. “Matt, come on out.”

“He makes you sound like a shy five-year old,” Jessica comments from her office, and Matt bites on a laugh, as he stands from his desk and moves to his door.

“What’s up?” he asks Malcolm. God bless Malcolm, honestly. He’s not sure how Jessica had found the man, but he is a godsend, both willing and able to participate in the myriad micro-deceptions that Matt’s cover requires.

“Client here for you,” Malcolm says. “Kate Bishop.”

Kate’s heart slows a tiny bit, but not by much. She’s still stressed.

He smiles at her. “Hi, Miss Bishop,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Matt Murdock.”

“The Fisk case, right?” she asks, ignoring his hand.

He lets it drop, and nods.

_At least she didn’t bring up Castle._

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“You’ve got a reputation for taking cases nobody else will,” she says, the words coming out a little rushed.

Matt can’t quite help a smile. “I’m bad at backing down,” he tells her. It’s the truth, and it’s not quite as good as his _“I defend the innocent”_ line was, but it’s not bad either.

She lets out a long, measured breath. “Good. Because I need to _tear someone a new asshole_.”

“Whoever she is, Murdock, I like her already,” Jessica mumbles into her flask, in her office.

Kate Bishop smells like jasmine, apple and matcha lattés, and she feels like stress and shame and rage.

Looks like he’s got a case.

* * *

 

“Start at the beginning,” Matt says.

Malcolm is beside him, his pen scribbling away. Personally, Matt finds the scratch of ink and nib on paper soothing, but it does nothing to relieve the tension in Kate’s jaw and shoulders.

“It was about a week ago,” she says, softly. “I, uh, I’d been at a party. A friend of mine from Barnard was hosting it, and it was important to her, so I figured I’d make an appearance. Just off Central Park, around East 106th. I felt like ditching early, I didn’t wanna stick around. Some guys from the Columbia frats had shown up, and that’s usually the time to get the hell out. They’re obnoxious as fuck. I’d had maybe a drink or two, and I figured I’d walk around the park, clear my head a bit. I was over near the lake. It was maybe nine at night, and March, so, not exactly a lot of people around, and – I don’t know how long Tristan was following me, because I was there for an hour, before he–”

She cuts herself off, swallowing hard, and Matt can taste the adrenaline in the air, around the slow-roiling rage that is curling around his heart, the familiar firestorm prickling beneath his skin.

_In Manhattan._

“He, uh, held me down,” she says. It’s like she’s tearing the words from her throat, jagged shards of glass that hangs in the air. “And – pushed my skirt up. I couldn’t. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t scream, he put his hand on my mouth. I froze. I’m a fucking _archer_ , and I froze, while he–”

Matt locks his jaw, as Kate drags the words forth into the room, and grips his cane tightly.

Eventually, the words stop. They hang in the air, fragile, like they could be shattered if they poke too hard. Kate is breathing like she’s just run a marathon, and he can feel the vibrations of the tears trickling down her cheeks from the other side of the table.

“Did you file charges against him?” he asks her, voice soft and professional. If there’s any hint of his rage in his voice, Kate doesn’t react to it.

“Yeah. At the 23rd precinct. But –” she swallows. “His Dad’s pretty high up. In the NYPD. Which explains why – it should have gotten out to the press, but this is– it _hasn’t_ , he hasn’t been arrested, or investigated, he was on campus the _other day–_ ”

She cuts herself off again, one fist clenching, and the other one dropping to her handbag, to the weapon there.

Matt nods. “I see.”

She huffs. “So what do we do?”

The words are bitten out sharply. Trying to draw attention away from the vulnerability still lingering in the room.

Slowly, Matt takes off his glasses. Patronising her seems like a one-way ticket to her biting his hand off, and he wouldn’t blame her for it in the slightest, because more than anything, being handled like a china doll is the most infuriating thing in the world.

He keeps his voice matter-of-fact and calm. “Well, I’m a defence attorney. I’m not with the D.A’s office. If your criminal case is being mishandled, I can definitely raise a ruckus about it, but I can’t strongarm the cops into handling it properly without us suing the hell out of them.”

She goes still, her heart pounding.

“So we do nothing?” she asks, her voice ice cold.

“I didn’t say that,” he says, unable to keep a slight snap out of his voice. “Still want to tear your attacker a new one?”

“ _Yes_.”  It’s less statement than snarl, an expression of nothing less than primal rage.

The Devil of Hell's Kitchen smiles back at her, in Matt Murdock’s suit. “Good. That, we can do. It’ll be difficult, and complicated, but we can do it.”

Her nod is crisp.

“Where do we start?”

“A full report of your injuries,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “Pulling the case file from the D.A’s office. I’ll have to give Jenn Walters a call. She’s good people, though, she’ll do it. Kate, you said Tristan was still hanging around your campus. Is he following you?”

“… _shit_ ,” Kate says, her heartbeat quickening.

“Breathe,” Malcolm says, dragging in a deep breath. “Kate. Kate. Breathe.”

Her fingers clench into fists again. “Uh. I hadn’t thought of – no. He hasn’t been following me. I just saw him hanging with some of his buddies on the quad the other week. If he’d been following me, I would have fucking castrated him with an arrow.”

“Against my better instincts, I’m going to recommend you don’t castrate him, if only because it increases the probability of us suing the shit out of him,” Matt says. _It’s not the worst of ideas, though._ “Did you report him to security?”

“Yeah. They’ve, uh, offered me a panic button, and an escort to my classes, and he’s not hanging around anymore, but he’s an NYU student, they can’t do an internal investigation. But–” she swallows, hard. “Some of the people who I – _thought_ were my friends, but who _clearly fucking aren’t_ – aren’t talking to me anymore. They, uh, think I’m making it up.”

Matt has to force himself to keep breathing. “Okay. You say it hasn’t gotten out to the press yet?”

“No. That’s probably the weirdest part. I’ve never exactly been way out of the public eye – just gossip rags and shit. So when I filed charges, I was surprised when nothing leaked.” She huffs. “Of course, I should have expected that. Tristan’s good at getting away with shit.”

“Okay. The thing is, it _will_ hit, the second we sue them. A civil suit is public knowledge. Not an internal matter. It’s going to be a media shit-storm, Kate. We can do this. But it is _not_ going to be pretty, and I want you to brace yourself for that,” Matt says.

She nods. “I don’t need pretty. I need him to be locked away, and never, _ever_ be able to do this to _anyone_ , ever again.”

Matt turns to Malcolm. “Malcolm, if you wouldn’t mind grabbing one of the contracts?”

“Yeah, of course,” Malcolm stands and retreats from the room.

Kate’s heartbeat seems to have slowed a little.

“Kate,” Matt says. “You’re fully within your rights to tell me to fuck off. But – are you seeing someone about this?”

“A therapist, you mean?” she drums the fingers of her hand. “I’m honestly not sure they do much.”

Matt shrugs. “Not a therapist, necessarily. But someone you can talk to about it. You’re not the only one who’s been through some shit. I’d just advise you to find a way that works for you to work through it. If you ever need help with ideas for that, let me know.”

She is silent for a moment.

“Not born blind, then, I’m guessing,” she says.

The words are blunt, but not harsh.

Matt smiles. “No, I wasn’t.”

“…so do all of your clients make the ‘justice is blind’ joke?” Kate enquires, a note of humour in her voice for the first time.

And Matt feels a chuckle well up deep inside, genuine mirth and hope from a place he didn’t know he still had.

“I think that particular honour is yours,” he says, as Malcolm shoves the door of the conference room back open.


	2. up a creek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has conversations, and is called on his bullshit. Thanks, Jess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know what I'm doing in the slightest.

“Jenn, hi, thanks for meeting me,” Matt says, as she sits down in the diner opposite him. Jenn Walters smells like the rainstorm outside, and the remnants of this morning’s mocha, now faded.

“Oh, well, who among the New York Bar Association doesn’t want to get a call from the returned-from-purgatory Matt Murdock,” Jenn says. Her grin is twined into her voice, as she reaches out and taps his hand once on the back. Teasing.

“Technically, souls that are missing are just in limbo,” Matt replies, smiling back at her. “Not that I wouldn’t love to catch up, but–”

“You and me both. Lunch breaks. Long enough for you to get out of work mode, not long enough,” Jenn sighs. “So, the Bishop case.”

“Yeah. Ms Bishop approached me about possible avenues if the investigation doesn’t pan out.”

Jenn’s heartbeat picks up. Not in the fearful, anxious rhythm of hiding something. Different. It’s _rage_.

“Jenn?” he asks.

“It’s good that she approached you,” Jenn says, very quietly. “You still prefer digital files, right?”

Matt nods.

She slides something across the table.

A latté in a styrofoam cup, and beside it, a little drive. It clinks against the canister holding the sugars.

 _Drive_ , she taps out, in Morse code.

Matt taps back, before he reaches out, and surreptitiously pinches the drive, using the motion of grabbing the latté. It’s a neat deception, but it seems out of character for Jenn.

“You’re worried?” he asks her.

She sighs. “Between what happened with Fisk – finding out half the people in seemingly every system were dirty – and the Punisher? Yeah, I’m nervous. I can’t look at half my colleagues without wondering if I’m not missing some piece of the puzzle.”

“So why trust me?” Matt asks, around the familiar heartache that comes with the duplicity, from under the mantle of guilt that settles across his shoulders, so familiar he’s surprised it even registers anymore.

She raises her eyebrows. “You get into the middle of shit like clockwork, Murdock. You’re predictable like that. I’m not worried about you.”

Matt can’t help the laugh that bursts from him, startled by the sound. “Wait till I tell Jones. She’ll be thrilled to hear someone shares her opinion.”

“Rumour’s true, then?” Jenn leans forward, intrigued. “Sharing an office with _the_ Jessica Jones?”

“Should I grab her autograph for you?”

“Something tells me that wouldn’t go down well.”

“This town is way too small sometimes.”

“Just the association of Columbia Law grads.”

Matt chuckles. “Yeah, she and I are sharing an office suite. It keeps life interesting.”

He raises the latté in a mock toast, and then slides his chair back, reaching for his cane. “Good seeing you, Jenn.”

“Good seeing you too, Matt.”

* * *

 

Jessica’s in her office when he walks back through the doors, and there’s a client sitting in the waiting room.

Clint Peterson. Probably here to talk about his alimony payments, then.

“Matt, Mr Peterson's here,” Malcolm says. “He was hoping you could squeeze him in?”

Matt tilts his head back. “I’m pretty sure I can. When’s my next?”

“Ms Philips at 3:30. You’ve got time.”

“Wonderful. Clint, give me a second,” Matt says.

He sets down one of the paper parcels and a muffin on Malcolm’s desk. “You like blueberry, right? I think you told me once.”

Malcolm has told him no such thing, and being able to smell it on his breath some mornings hardly counts, but social work is an excellent field for the guy, because he doesn’t miss a beat.

“Thanks,” Malcolm says. “Want me to drop Jessica’s in on her?”

“Nah, ‘s alright,” Matt says, walking over to Jessica’s office.

“It’s open, Murdock,” she says.

Oh. She must have heard him walking back.

(It feels...strange, to think that she knows the sound of his footfalls now.)

He opens the door, and walks to where she’s sitting at her desk. Her flask is already half-empty.

“How’s it going?” he asks her.

“Eh. Same old, same old. Humanity sucks, marriage ends in divorce, and I’m not drunk enough for this.” She twists to look at him. “You?”

“I’m really sick of people fucking with the legal system, and I am both too sober and too uncaffeinated for this shit,” Matt replies, setting the coffee and the muffin on her desk.

She blinks at them. “What are those for?”

He shrugs. “I was meeting someone from the D.A’s office at a café, and they’re good muffins. And besides, you haven’t eaten.”

“You're still weird,” she says, as he leaves the office.

“Thanks, Jess,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Clint. Come with me, let’s see what’s going on.”

What’s happening is that Clint’s struggling to make the alimony payments to his second wife, Alexa, given that he has full custody of the children from his first marriage to Sara, who is not paying her alimony payments to him. It’s a circle of finances that makes Matt work very hard to maintain a straight face – he’s not sure whether he’ll laugh or cry if his poker face breaks – as he works out a plan to get the alimony payments back.

Clint Peterson promises that if Matt needs any furniture fixed, or any locks opened, that he is his guy.

Matt refrains from pinching the bridge of his nose and reminds Clint that offering to commit crimes for your attorney is not the best way to avoid prison.

Clint nods, looking a little abashed, and says, “But seriously–”

“It was good seeing you, Clint,” Matt says, ushering him out of the door of his office, and leaning against the door, letting out a long sigh.

He shoots a quick text to Malcolm: _Clint’s pro bono_

Malcolm Ducasse, 2:35pm: _Understood_.

* * *

 

 He walks around to his desk, plugs the flash drive into his computer, and starts reading. It’s a copy of a case file, not a report from the D.A’s office, and that makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

Kate Bishop, filing charges against one Tristan Baker, apparently of assault. Kate had, according to the report, attacked Tristan in Central Park by the lake. Baker had – oh so magnanimously – chosen to not press charges against his attacker.

_Fucking hell._

The more he reads, the more the familiar rage curls under his skin, in his gut, through the joints and bones of his hands. He draws in a deep breath, and keeps reading.

Report filed by Detective Maloney, 23rd precinct, three days ago. And Kate had said that she went to the precinct about 'a couple of weeks ago.'

 _God dammit_.

Matt sucks in a deep breath, and stands, clenching his fists. It’s a false report. It may as well be blaring off the screen reader in large, neon letters. A case report that had, in all probability, never been intended to see the light of day, meant to be deliberately ‘misfiled’ somewhere.

_Who risked their ass to get it to Jenn?_

He walks into the break-room, registering Jessica and Malcolm there, discussing one of the cases. They fall silent when they see him.

“Continue,” he grinds out, between clenched teeth. Ah, shit, he hadn’t meant to let them know. It wasn’t their problem.

“Afternoon, Lucifer,” Jessica says. “Did the alimony guy crawl up your ass and die there?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Matt says, reaching into the cupboard and taking down one of the mugs.

“Right, I forgot. The stoic thing,” Jessica begins, and Matt _cannot do this shit_ right now.

He whirls, shoving his glasses up his nose. “Jessica, can we do this another time? Because right now, I am this close to getting out the suit and going out tonight.”

“Do it.”

Matt blinks. “What?”

She shrugs. “Daredevil made this city a safer place, a better place, and you got to be who you are. You want your post back? Then get your shit together and _take it_ , Matt. The only person stopping yourself from getting your life back – all of your life back – is you. But so help me God, it even looks like it’s getting complicated, you will _fucking call me_ , or I will rip your throat out and shove it up your–”

“I get the picture.”

“I really don’t think you do,” Jessica says, taking another drink from her flask. Her heart is pounding with her anger.

Matt reviews the tattered shreds of his justifications. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

Something spikes through her body. Surprise. Probably at him suddenly deciding to use his manners.

She slides the flask across the table. “Here.”

“Thank you,” he repeats, and takes a long draw of it.

It takes all of his self-control to keep from spitting the mouthful out. It’s less whiskey than paint thinner, and it burns down his throat, almost brings tears to his eyes. And he’s someone who _prefers_ strong whiskeys.

“Your clients need to pay you more,” he says.

“Why? For my peerless services?”

“So that you don’t keep that _insult to alcohol_ in production.”

“I’ll let them know, might convince the angry wives,” Jessica returns.

He smirks, and pours another cup of coffee. “Oh, I feel that now’s a good time to mention that Jenn Walters from the D.A’s office wants your autograph.”

“...you did not tell her that I’d give it to her,” Jessica says.

It’s a statement flatter than a ruler.

“Course not,” Matt replies. “I just thought you’d like to know. You’ve got fans.”

“I have people who have taken an interest in me because they have no life whatsoever,” Jessica corrects him. “You, on the other hand, had a Twitter account dedicated to your butt in the fetish gear.”

He chokes on his gulp of coffee. It splashes onto his shirt, hot and wet, and well, isn’t this just perfect. Malcolm helps him out of the jacket, and ducks back into the reception area.

“Here,” he says, throwing his T-shirt at Matt.

Matt catches it one handed, continuing to work at the buttons, before discarding it, and then pulling the T-shirt off.

As he does, there’s a sharp inhalation from Jessica.

 _...oh, right_.

“Sorry,” he says, sheepishly, turning around.

“Hey, I’m just surprised you’re not bruised,” she drawls. “Figured it was a law of the universe at this point.”

He’s suddenly very glad that he’s not facing her, as he feels his skin heat from his blush, and hers heat as well.

... _oh_.

“Next time, I charge tickets,” he deflects. The polite thing, after all, is to say nothing when your coworker is attracted to you and doesn't want to be.

“Damn. Don’t suppose I could do what half your clients do and pay in goods and services?” she asks casually.

Her skin’s hot, but if her attraction is bothering her, she’s not showing it.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s only about a quarter of them, you know that,” he says.

“Hey, your business. Not like we have to worry about paying rent to Rand,” she says.

“He really needs to take a business class,” Matt sighs. “Alright. Back to the case. Thanks for the advice, Jones.”

“Throat fucking _ripped out_. Don’t think I won’t, Murdock.”

He bites down on a smile.

(It’s nice to be cared for.)

“Noted.”

* * *

 

The report is filed by Detective Maloney at the 23rd precinct, reportedly.

Matt grabs his jacket and leaves his cane in his office.

“Have fun,” Jessica says from the kitchenette. “If you sprain your ankle, I’m not coming to get you.”

“Thanks. Anything you need from Central Park?”

“Go crack your fucking case, Murdock,” she says, and it almost sounds tolerant.

Almost.

Matt grins, and heads out the door.

* * *

 

One of the things he’s grateful about in New York City is that nobody looks up. It makes life a lot easier when you parkour across somewhat unfamiliar rooftops. He lands on the top of the 23rd precinct, and settles onto the rooftop, settling into a crouch. He tilts his head to the side, and plunges deep into the world of the precinct.

The whirring of the coffee machine. The sound of pens scratching across paper, keyboards being rapidly tapped on. 

_"Isn't it a bit late for lunch?"_

_"Eh, had to go find a witness for something."_

A man is stepping around the precinct. His heels are clicking sharply on the floor of the main room. It’s an open-plan precinct, desk sergeant standing at the front of the plan.

“Kaminsky, where are you with the robbery?” A deep baritone, tones crisp and authoritative, but with an underlying hint of stress.

“We’ve found a lead on the surveillance cams, I think. Van matching the owner’s description, got it as far as River Avenue,” the man replies.

“Good. Keep me posted.”

Another several paces, as he talks to the next detective. The captain smells like Calvin Klein; there’s a heart murmur; by the creaking, arthritic sound of his joints and the typical career track in the NYPD, he is at least in his fifties.

“Maloney, a word in my office, please,” the man says.

“Be right there, Captain!” A young voice, around Matt’s age. His walk is fluid as he walks from his seat; he swipes a sweet from the bowl of candy on his desk as he walks into the Captain’s office.

“Detective, do you really find it necessary to eat sour candy at every time of the day?”

“It’s five in the afternoon, Cap, I need my sweets,” the Detective says.

“Update on the Bishop case, please.”

“Bishop, Bishop...oh, right, that one. Yeah, paperwork has mysteriously been mislaid, digital copies must not have saved, Mr Baker has agreed to not press charges, and the Commissioner will not get off your ass.”

“Mysteriously mislaid?”

“I’m sorry, misfiled. Somehow, I managed to put it in with case 43-ABD-dash-42QJ,” Maloney says airily. 43-ABD-dash-42QJ.

“The unsolveable cold case Lopez gave up on fourteen years ago?”

“Yep.”

“Well done. Greggs didn’t question it?”

“Greggs hates paperwork too much to question it.”

_Greggs. Lopez. 43-ABD-42QJ._

Looks like he’s got a lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maloney is like an evil Irish Jake Peralta. I know.


End file.
